


sweet spiced wine

by wrizard



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Background Thanatos/Zagreus - Freeform, Comeplay, Comeshot, Drinking, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, Grey Ace Character, Intoxication, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, rimjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrizard/pseuds/wrizard
Summary: “Here, let’s get you that refill.” He waves his hand and the goblet refills, overflows, wine sloshing out over the rim and onto the grass, over your bare feet.“Rude.”“Oops,” he winks.Gods, even his dumb winks are charming. You kind of want to lay face down in the grass and scream. Instead, you snatch the goblet from Dionysus’ hand and take a deep gulp.Hypnos goes to a party, meets Dionysus, drinks some wine, and has a very,veryfun night.
Relationships: Hypnos/Dionysus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 101





	sweet spiced wine

**Author's Note:**

> Content note: In this piece, grey ace Hypnos has a bunch of enthusiastic sex with an allo partner, while both of them are tipsy. xoxo

Every time you try to finish your drink, the glass is full again.

It makes sense, at a party for the God of Wine, but honestly it’s getting _really_ annoying. “Good sir Lord Dionysus sir,” you call out, a little plaintive over the festive music, “my cup isn’t… _urgh_.”

Your usual hover is making you feel a bit ill, so you tuck your feet up under you and perch on a conveniently smooth rock to avoid the tickle of lush grasses on your ankles. Your sandals are gone, and probably won’t ever return; they might be in the small mountain of shoes stacked by the fire pit. A tall woman with no clothes on is tossing them into the bonfire. She seems to be having a great time. You just want to finish your wine. Just one cup, you told yourself, and then you can go home to your bed. Or something. It’s a little hard to think with all the noise.

The music is lovely, of course; howling flutes and pounding drums, like a war party, but wilder and deeper. You can feel the drumbeats in your ribcage, rumbling through your bones, making your heart pulse with the beat. It’s so warm up on the surface, even at night; your blood thrums hot under your skin.

The fire flares up, casting sparks higher than the surrounding hills. A cheer bursts from the crowd. There hadn’t been more than twenty, maybe thirty worshipers at the start of the night, but the clearing is packed - there must be at least a hundred, now. All humans, vivacious and brown, eyes glazed and gleaming in the light. A few look like they may be of divine get, with shimmering mirages of horns spiralling from their heads. No Satyrs, though, thankfully. No one powerful enough to distract from tonight’s centrepiece.

The beautiful Dionysus.

He’s dancing around the fire, holding the hands of a young man with tight gold curls and roaring with laughter. Long, loose, purple-black hair bounces around his shoulders. He’s cast off his leopard skin and his thyrsus staff, leaping about in the grass with his chiton unbelted and billowing. Firelight shines on his bare feet, wet with dew - his sandals are probably in the bonfire pile with yours. His thick, golden brown thighs gleam with his every step, anklets and bracers jingling to the beat of the drums. His dance partner stares at him, eyes wide and mouth open. That kid’s gonna get eaten alive.

Well, not literally, but with this crowd, who knows.

You take a sip of your wine, and cough – it’s full _again_. That’s it. “Lord Dionysus!”

Over the din, his gaze snaps to you, eyes ablaze, grinning like a beast. He drops the youth’s hands and makes straight for you, teeth shining in the firelight. He’s so tall - a head and shoulders above the humans, not that they notice his height (or your skin) with all the magic in the air. You feel a bit like a baby goat in front of a tiger. A very drunk tiger. “Hypnos, my dear guest!” he shouts. “Are you having a good time?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” you say, “I’m great, just, I had a question actually sir!” Your goblet tips, and you scramble to keep it from spilling on your lap.

As he wades through the crowd, the sharp angles of his face soften into a delighted smile. “I’m so glad you came, man. It’s been a long time since we had such a fresh face at one of our little parties.”

You squint. “No way you know _all_ of them.”

“No, no, Hyps – ” (that one’s new) “ - I know each and every one of them intimately. Or at least I hope to,” Dionysus says, and winks.

He’s not lying, if what Zagreus says about him is true. Over the last while, as he’s called on you for his “special naps” (nothing that special, just some nice dreams and waking up well-rested after long nights; you don’t know why he doesn’t just do it himself), he’s shown you how much of an odd duck he really is. It’s strange to remember he’s the only Olympian with a mortal mother, and the youngest – younger than you by a fair margin, though he doesn’t look it. His nasty cruel streak gentles around suffering mortals. If these celebrants, his Maenads and his followers, asked for it, you’ve no doubt he’d show them a night they’d never forget. After all, he _is_ the god of ecstasy and madness. What could be crazier than banging your patron god?

He’s smiling. It’s a nice smile, warm and bright as the bonfire. You wobble a little on your perch. What were you… Oh. Right. “My drink,” you proclaim, “keeps going. You tricked me.”

Dionysus laughs, full and deep. “Finally noticed, have you? Lighten up! It’s just a bit of fun. Didn’t I promise you a break?”

Did he? You frown. “I… have work.”

“Oh, come on, stay - the night’s barely started!” He’s standing next to your rock, now, leaning forward with his violet eyes locked on yours. His gaze is intense; a predator, passionate, joyful, barely hiding pure power behind a mask of foolish whimsy.

You try to look at him right back, head tilting. He invited you here for… some reason. You’re hardly a party guy; you’re much better at hiding in a corner and doling out constructive criticism than actually having a good time. He has plenty of other people around who are built for celebration. You’re really, really not. And, apparently, he still wants you to stay.

Before you can say a word, he takes your thin, cold, grey hand in his massive dark one and says, “Come dance with me, man, you’re our guest, you have to at least dance, just once – ” and you’re pulled to your feet.

Your toes hit the grass, cold and wet, and you stagger right into his well-muscled chest. You’re a little taller than the average shade, not that anyone can tell when you’re curled up and floating as much as possible, but Dionysus is _god_ -tall. You only really reach his shoulders. You could rest your head on his collarbone. That sounds pretty nice, actually.

Wait. No. Nope. None of that shit tonight, you tell yourself sharply. He’s gorgeous and warm and that kind of sweet/dangerous that makes his company intriguing, and none of that changes the fact he is a _god_ and you are _not._ You’re a little more immortal than him, on a technicality, but he’s more powerful than damn well anyone you know (except Hades, and maybe your mom). No thoughts about his nice muscles. No lingering glances. No _touching_. No no no.

Fuck. You’ve been silent for a deeply weird amount of time. You pull back to apologize. Instead, you stumble, flail, and spill your wine absofuckinglutely everywhere.

A chorus of laughter rings out. Dionysus’ chiton is completely wrecked, flowing fabric clinging to his body and dyed deep red-purple. He’s stopped moving, looking at you with an expression you can’t place. His hand is still around yours.

“Ohhh, no, I’m so sorry,” you babble, “I – you grabbed me and I, uh, maybe you shouldn’t wear white to a wine party next time?” You wince. “Not that I’m criticizing, sir Lord Dionysus sir, I only mean that you, uh, shoot, your clothes – ”

“All good, my man, all good,” he says, still looking at you. His cheek dimples, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’ve been meaning to update my look! Here, how’s this.”

With a flourish, he twists his chiton off entirely, leaving him naked, jewelry and bangles gleaming in the dancing firelight. A cheer swells through the crowd.

Oh, boy.

You _do not_ look down _._

To the worshipers, Dionysus cries, “Come on, my loves! Let’s get this party _started!_ ” A chorus of human yells follow, with the sound of fabric tearing and falling to the ground. You’ve got your eyes fixed on his neck, your cheeks hot. He’s been stunning this whole time, obviously, with his strength and size and smooth, brown skin and _gorgeous_ hair, but without his chiton to break the curve of his shoulders, you want to go home and scream into your pillow.

He turns back to you, eyes burning and teeth sharp. “Your turn, Little Sleep,” he coos, snatches the ever-filling goblet from your hands, and dumps wine _all-bloody-over you_.

You forewent your usual scarlet robes for tonight’s festivities, trading them for clothes Thanatos grudgingly called “mortal-looking:” a plain, undyed tunic, leggings, and your long-gone sandals. It was a struggle to leave your quilted cape behind, and it took you a solid half-hour of arguing with Zagreus to part from your sleeping mask. Point being, you aren’t wearing anything particularly important, or even that nice.

You still screech. (Dionysus roars with laughter. You very politely don’t kick him in the shin.)

Hastily, you strip off your tunic and wipe your face with the dry hem. Guh. Even in the warm night, the breeze pricks at your skin. That’s one thing you hate about the surface: the air _moves_ all the time. It’s cold on your wet belly. Your leggings are soaked, and your tunic unsalvageable. At least no wine got in your hair; you don’t even want to think about going home with purple curls. Eugh, you’re going to be so sticky.

“Don’t hold out on us, little man,” he chuckles, “let’s see the rest of you! You’re overdressed!”

By now the dancers have all stripped to their skin, baring their brown, unbalanced flesh to the stars. You’re the only one still wearing anything at all. Well, one or two older humans stay wrapped in shawls by the edge of the fire, but the rest…

Mortals are uncomfortable to look at. They aren’t formed the way you were, out of light and dark and conscious design. They’re messy. Accidental. Chaotic lumps of skin and hair and scars. By the fire, the breasts of dancing women swing, uneven and tight-nippled in the cool air. Bellies sag and bounce. Limbs tangle, genitals flop, and faces twist. It’s base, crude, and divinely flawed, like looking at spilled paint and seeing a portrait.

And it’s not like people hang around nude back home, either; you make a point of bathing in private, mostly because you don’t want to walk in on your brother doing something nasty with Zagreus (like _canoodling_ ) and you have less than zero desire to see the Boss’ junk. Bodies, celestial or not, are _weird_ and you are _weirded out_ by them.

But… Dionysus is standing in front of you, and all you can think about is how badly you want to know what the rest of him looks like. And how both of you would look together.

You squeeze your eyes shut, face flaming. “Sir, please.”

He makes a deep _aw_ sound, voice smooth and indulgent. “Don’t be nervous. You’re in good company; think of it as a favour to me, alright?”

Fuck. Your eyes stay stubbornly closed as you slide off your leggings as quickly as you dare. Ignoring his hum of approval (?!), you kick them off your feet and immediately curl up, floating at your usual height and hiding yourself from his view. “Happy, Lord Dionysis sir?”

“ _Very_ ,” he purrs.

Your eyes twitch open to see his lascivious gaze roam from your ankles to your chest, and you want to squawk, but you can’t think of a way to make it sound polite enough.

By complete accident, you catch sight of Dionysus’ body. He’s sculpted, muscled and thick and gleaming artfully with the sweat of hard dancing. His sturdy hands rest on his hips, and as you follow the lines of his torso down -

Oh. That’s very much his dick.

It’s thick and heavy like the rest of him, perking up a little in the way you are pretty sure dicks do when they’re intrigued by something nearby, like Cerberus when he hears the word “sack” (you wish it was _any other word_ but the Fates have given your house a particularly bizarre short straw when it comes to excitable dogs, and you’ve lost the thread of your complaint, because that’s! Dionysus’! dick!). It’s that rich, deep brown of the rest of his skin, a little purple around the head, and framed by a thicket of shiny, black curls. You have no idea what constitutes size norms among the gods, or if they even have them what with the whole occasional-shape-changing thing, but it’s definitely proportionate. For a particularly weird moment, you’re distracted by the lack of grape leaves in his pubes.

“Like what you see, man?” When your gaze flicks to his face in alarm, he’s ready with a cocky grin and a sure wink. His lashes are lush and dark, framing his soft eyes neatly. There are traces of a burgundy flush on his cheeks. His shoulders and hips, in perfect contrapposto, are carefully relaxed – a little too controlled, in a way you couldn’t spot if you hadn’t seen him comfortable before. “Look all you want. I don’t mind.”

Oh. He’s nervous. That, weirdly, makes you feel a little better.

You uncurl a bit, letting your arms dangle and your feet brush the tops of the grass. You’re not letting him see your junk yet or anything, but your chest is a bit freer. “We don’t, uh, do a lot of nudity. At home,” you say. You can really feel your hands, and how awkward they are, floating there and doing nothing.

“Of course not! Uncle H is a real downer. Bet he doesn’t even let you drink nectar.”

“How did you know?”

“I know my family,” Dionysus snorts. It’s a little harsher than maybe he intended; he’s flexing one hand like he wants to reach out and grab something, and he’s staring at your mouth. Twitchy nerves crawl down your belly.

The question comes back to you: why does he want you here?

You wince. Not even gonna touch that one right now. “You knew Hades before he… started working?” you try.

He squints at you. It takes him a moment to pick up the new topic. “No, no - had to pick up my mum, once, if you can believe it. It was a whole thing. Oh, man, you ever meet Prosymnus? He’s been in Asphodel a while.”

You shake your head.

“Mm. Good. Hot, if you like older guys, but kind of a creep.” Dionysus smiles tightly. “You wouldn’t like him. Pushy.”

“I can be into pushy,” you say, and immediately regret being born.

Dionysus looks at you, half-smile on his face. “Noted,” he says.

You’re too busy drowning in shame to think of anything intelligent to say, so you sort of let your eyes bug out and just stare at the fire. The silence between you grows, barely louder than the drums and singing of the mortals. After a minute, though, the silence is too terrible to hold onto, so you say the first thing that pops into your head.

“So, anyone else coming?” Wait. “Any non-humans?” Nailed it.

Dionysus looks at you carefully, like he doesn’t quite get you. You can empathise; you also do not get you. “I invited you specially, man,” he says, broad smile a little smaller than usual. “It’s just us and the monkeys, tonight.”

“Not even Aphrodite?”

His smile twists. “She and her hubby are “on-again” right now, and he doesn’t like me much.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “But you’re great. Is he a bad dancer or something?”

Dionysus chuckles. “He’s just a stick-in-the-mud. Doesn’t get wanting to have a good time, all wrapped up in his “duties.”” He uses broad air-quotes which, of all things, make his dick sort of wiggle, which is objectively hilarious.

You don’t snicker. Instead, you just say, “Right. Cool.”

Sparks trail up into the velvet dark, to vanish among wide rivers of stars. It’s cloudless, tonight, and Selene is out in full, driving her bright chariot across the clear sky. Soft wind brings the sound of whispering grass drifting across the clearing, the whirling merriment of song and drum cooled and muffled, the chirping of insects and night-birds gentle over the crackling of the fire. You’ve never really held on to heat, what with being a child of Darkness and all, and you are starting to feel the biting chill. (It doesn’t help that you got your mother’s slender frame over the muscled body your brothers favour; you’ve always wrapped yourself in quilts and blankets as they strutted around in only their robes. Than insists that building up core strength and working within a routine would help. You think he’s full of it.)

“You look good naked, you know,” Dionysus says.

After a sputtering moment, you look at him, and see the glittering mischief in his eyes. Gods. What a dick. You look back at the fire mulishly. “I do know. I always look great.”

“Well, good,” he adds. “Then come relax. Dance a little.” He’s swaying to the beat again, feet tamping softly on the ground.

You’re still curled up in your little floaty ball, but he’s got this weird, sweet little smile on and it makes you want to make him happy. Urgh. You shove any non-existent butterflyish feelings down with prejudice and sort of uncurl, letting your feet touch down on cool, crushed grass. You crack your neck a bit, too, and stretch your arms out. You’ve been so tense, you realise, clinging to your rock and your wine and your propriety - but Dionysus’ whole _thing_ is letting go. Of propriety, of order, of status. Of the parts of you that hold your real self back.

You let yourself do a full-body shake, knocking the chill out of your skin and jumping to get your blood moving. You’re sobering up. (Takes a lot to get an incarnation wasted, and a lot more to keep them that way.) You try not to think about how it’s making your junk flop around.

“You alright, man?” says Dionysus, eyeing you.

“My eyes are up here,” you say, and wince. “Sorry, sir – ”

“No, no,” he chuckles, “by all means, say what you like. You want me to look at your eyes, I’ll look at your eyes.” His gaze shifts to your face, and yep, he’s staring at your eyes, now. Not what you meant, but okay.

His eyes are so wide and dark. Not like yours at all. Not like anyone else you’ve ever known.

“Want another drink?” he says.

Fuck it. “You know what? Yeah. I would.” You pout. “At least your wine is better than the watery stuff from the lounge back home. I mean, they definitely have nicer drinks, but do they let me have any? No.” A little giddy, you let yourself keep talking – Hades would yell at you for a year if you talked shit about the other staff. “And! They only get good fish when Zagreus actually goes out and finds some. Like, is this not a restaurant? Should you not have a supplier? I don’t get it. I’ve had hellfish stew for three days, and I think it was all from the same hellfish,” you add, a little flushed.

Dionysus laughs like the peal of a bell, and you feel a littler warmer. “Oh - I remember a bit of the feasting hall, it’s such a dreadful bore! Can’t imagine what the rest of the place is like. All grey and dreary.” A theatrical shudder. “Here, forget that, let’s get you that refill.” He waves his hand and the goblet refills, overflows, wine sloshing out over the rim and onto the grass, over your bare feet.

“Rude.”

“Oops,” he winks.

Gods, even his dumb winks are charming. You kind of want to lay face down in the grass and scream. Instead, you snatch the goblet from Dionysus’ hand and take a deep gulp.

This is not what you were drinking before. It’s thicker, darker, with a sort of tangy brightness on the back of your tongue. Reminds you a bit of nectar, with an almost syrupy texture. Honey? Hells, is there ambrosia in it? You swallow, take another gulp; it’s _delicious_. Chocolate, and dark berries, and the sweet, sharp smell of alcohol, over heady grapes and some sort of warm spice; it’s like candy, and a warming tonic, and a stiff drink all at once.

“S’my special blend,” Dionysus purrs. “All the way from the vineyards at home.”

“Wow,” you say. “It’s nice. Like, weird, but nice.”

His cheek dimples. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” You smile, joyful and open and -

Oh. Oh, wow, that was fast. You’re definitely done sobering up. Grinning, you let yourself sway to the music. It feels good, like something natural and fun and not at all like you’re dancing naked in front of a fire. And the fire itself is so lovely. Your whole front is warmed by it, a bit scorched, even, and your back is all chill and shivery. You spin around to even out the temperature and almost trip.

But Dionysus catches your arm in his bread, steady hand.

“Whoops,” you say, eyes wide. “Thanks, Big D.”

He chuckles. “That one’s new.”

“You want something different?” You pull yourself back up, but leave your arm in his hand.

“No, it’s fine, man. Call me whatever you want.”

You look up into his face and he looks… happy. Not the sort of vague sad-happy from when he mentioned Aphrodite, or the tense fake-happy before that – but really like he’s having fun. It makes you get all squidgy in your gut.

He’s really staring at you, now, eyes deep black and a little hooded. They’re locked on your mouth. You bite your lip, just to see what will happen – his cheeks get even redder.

Oh.

In the past, some people have accused you of being a bit… oblivious. But you’re not. You just like to think the best of people until they tell you otherwise! And sometimes the best of people is the version of them you have in your head and not actually who they are in the real world. But, you think with a giddy swoop of the stomach, you’re not actually a fool – you can read signals just fine when you’re not distracted.

And Dionysus –

He _wants_ you.

An uncontrollable grin spreads over your face, and you giggle, feeling yourself flush all over. _Dionysus thinks you’re cute_ , your brain whispers. _Dionysus wants all up in your business._ _And_ , you shriek back, _Dionysus is more than welcome_.

It’s probably a dumb idea. First, for you, sex is a sometimes food, has always been; how the complete clusterfuck of an Olympian family tree ever happened is a mystery to you, and while sex is pretty fun, it’s not something you seek out. Second, you’re literally in a field with a bunch of strangers, drunk on magic mystery wine and dancing in the nude. And third, your family. Nyx would probably lock you in your room for a century. Thanatos would be all judgy about it, but his boyfriend is an absolute freak in the bedroom so he can’t actually say anything. You have literally no idea what Charon would think, but he’s also maybe fucking a god right now? It’s a bit unclear. Most importantly, none of them are here. And you are.

And so is Dionysus.

You look up at him through your eyelashes, and decide to go for gold. “You sure you don’t want me to call you sir?” you coo.

Dionysus looks you over. “No, it’s all fine, whatever you like. It’s just us here. No need to stand on formality.”

You’re amazing at this. He sounds smooth and in control but he’s basically bright red. You grin and lick your lips (his eyes twitch, ha), and say, “You offered a refill?”

“Yeah, yeah, for sure,” he says, not looking away from your mouth, and, well. Who are you to say no to that kind of hospitality. People have fought wars for less.

He taps the bottom of your goblet, wraps his hand around yours, and tilts the cup to your lips – your mouth falls open and sweet wine fills you, more and more, spilling past your lips and chin and down your chest.

“Oh, messy boy,” he breathes.

You’ve got him hooked.

With a grin, he leans down toward you. His breath (spiced, rich, flavoured) runs over your cheeks. He brushes your hair back with his huge hand, running a thumb over your brow; it’s so soft and warm, uncalloused skin and deep muscle, effortless strength. You wiggle a little in his hold, butting your head back into his palm. He feels nice. You feel _nice._ You flush as he laughs, that warm feeling fills you up, tingling over your skin, and…

Oh. He’s kissing you.

You really have not kissed anyone in a long, long time. A couple decades, at minimum. You almost forgot how nice it is. Dionysus’ lips are plush, and a little commanding; it’s not wet, or slippery, just soft and gentle, big on your mouth. He tastes like some strange spice, pressing, teasing, flowing back and forth. He pulls back a little, opens his mouth to speak – but you rush back up to meet him. It’s bubbly in your chest. You press yourself to his long, warm body, wrapping your arms around his neck, clinging close. Every inch of him is pressed to every inch of you.

A couple of people applaud.

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, your chest, your ribs. “Little Sleep,” he murmurs into your mouth, “I want to make you feel so good. Want to show you off.”

You shiver and kiss his chin, his jaw, his thick neck. His skin is so lush with colour, dark against your dull grey, and his hair so thick. You feel giddy, like you could jump off the top of Olympus and fly back to Tartarus. The leaves in his hair are thick and full; you want to stroke them, feel their waxy outsides. You’re smiling so wide it’s hard to press your lips together.

“You listening, Hyps?”

“No,” you sing, and bite the tip of his nose. He squawks – you duck back up to lick the spot. Make it all clean and shiny. He’s laughing again; you kiss him on the mouth, and get his teeth instead. He’s so warm and big. Like your cloak, which is not a blanket no matter how many times Zagreus says so. Gods. You feel like hot jelly in the _best_ way. “Mmm, pick me up.”

“So demanding!” he says. Some titters surface through the chatter, but you don’t care, because he hefts you up into his arms – they’re like tree trunks or something, what in the hells – and holds you close to his chest. You hang onto his neck like a child. Gods, your face hurts from grinning. And, oh wow, you’re right on top of his unbelievable chest.

Dionysus is thick all around, carrying his bulk in muscle. He’s got thighs like barges and an ass like a pair of sexy melons. The light of the fire flickers across his dark skin and gleams over his wet lips, down the pillar of his neck to rest on the roundness of his pecs. You make a point of not ogling the most powerful beings in the universe, especially when you have a good working relationship, but right now you couldn’t look away if you tried.

“Wow, hi,” you say to his chest.

He snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You’d better,” you say, and rest your cheek on his collarbone. “You’re so gorgeous. How.”

A peal of laughter bursts out of him and it sparkles in your ribs. He presses his lips to your hair. “You like my body?”

“Mmhmm.” You tilt your head back. It’s like leaning out over a cliff. You’re a little dizzy, fizzing at the edges. “You’re so _big_.”

“You’re so small.” He smiles, and you hear a little _hee_ slip out of your mouth a moment before he licks up your neck. “Gorgeous little thing.”

“Hnaahh,” you agree. Oooh that feels nice.

He laughs, breathy against the thin skin of your throat. With careful, practiced skill, he nibbles your jaw. “Want to put on a show, man?”

“What did you, _hah,_ have in mind?” you say. You get wiggly when you’re happy, and you squirm as Dionysus sucks your earlobe into his mouth. It’s like someone is pouring lava down your spine, or maybe fizzy beer. He’s just. Big. And nice. Well, nice-ish; Than told you about what he did to his cousin Pentheus, and that was pretty messed up, but Pentheus was kind of a dick, so, eh. Not like the other gods are any nicer.

“Well,” Dionysus says, nosing up your jaw, “I had this thought, a few nights ago. Wanted to thank you, have a big party in your honour. _Let’s celebrate Hypnos and the good he does us every day!_ And then, in front of all those nice people, I take you apart.”

Your goblet slips from your hand and falls to the grass.

“Did you plan this?” you squeak-laugh. “Was this whole thing – you – ”

“I just want to show you some appreciation, Hyps; for the beautiful dreams I’ve been having,” he says into your mouth.

“Dreams aren’t even my area,” you insist. “Just the unconscious part.”

He pulls back with a smile, eyes glimmering. “Don’t be so modest! You’re a real treasure, man, a sweet little number – and those dreams have been giving me the _greatest_ ideas,” he drawls, leaning in and pressing his lips to your throat.

“Dion- _aaaah_ ,” you manage, then bat at his shoulder. “Wait, wait, you didn’t actually get these people here for this, right, not for me?”

He looks at you, eyebrows raised. “Am I not allowed to do something nice for my favourite incarnation?”

You flush a bit, and bonk his nose with your forehead. “Come on.”

“Fine, fine, it was a regular party, but I _wanted_ it to be for you,” he says. He’s still blushing a bit. Cute.

“Oh, good,” you preen, and you suck on his tongue.

With a low growl, he charges back into the fray, exploring your mouth like you’re hiding something in there. It makes you laugh, and choke a little into his mouth, which is uncomfortable, but he laughs back so it doesn’t matter. You kiss for a minute more, trading slow, sweet movements and savouring the warm, intoxicating night.

A couple of people whoop. You don’t even notice.

“Hyps, baby, what do you like,” says Dionysus when he finally pulls back. “What makes you feel good.”

“Oh, whatever,” you chirp. “I’m open.”

He groans into your neck. “You can’t just say things like that. I’ll lose my mind.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Come on, man,” he mutters, “what gets you off?” He nips at you. His teeth are a little pointy, but in the best way.

You actually have to stop and think for a second. You settle on, “Uh, most things? I’m not picky.”

“Then, Hyps, darling,” he breathes, “let me suck on you.”

You almost drop yourself on the ground.

He grins. “Like that, huh? Sound like a good time?”

You nod, not trusting your voice to keep from cracking.

“Wanted to get my mouth on that sweet little prick of yours for so long,” he says. “Wanna taste you, drive you crazy, make you scream with my tongue…”

“Oh?” you manage.

He surges back up to your mouth, pressing and licking. You let him, yielding to his tongue and clinging onto his neck for dear life. You’ve got your legs wrapped around his waist, holding tight, and he’s not lying – you can feel his dick, hot and hard, tucked under your ass. He’s got his arms tight around your hips, hands clutching at your butt, tugging you down just enough to grind on you. Not rudely, or insistently, but with promise.

You generously roll your hips. He groans into your mouth.

With a last press of lips, you pull back. “Come on,” you say in your worst Olympian accent. “Show me a good time.”

He snorts, and lowers you both to the ground with an impressive squat. (Gods, those glutes. How did he even get those.) He lays you carefully on the grass, flat on your back with your legs tucked up.

The ground is cool and wet with wine and dew. You’re close enough to the fire that you can feel the blasting heat of it, but it’s not burning, just a pleasant contrast to the night breeze. The grass tickles your spread thighs.

You shiver all over.

Dionysus, huge and dark, looms between your legs, shining hair catching the firelight. “You look delicious,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” you say, and feel enormously silly.

Gently, he takes your thighs in his big hands and presses apart, spreading you open. His eyes rake over you, settling on your junk with a pleased flicker. You kind of want to cover up. Not enough to do it, but just enough to send a shimmer of adrenalin down your spine.

“Delicious,” he repeats, and ducks down to mouth at the side of your knee, kissing a trail up the inside of your leg.

You don’t usually get hard, or even want to - hells, you don’t even masturbate that much - but he’s got his soft lips pressed to your thigh and your head is spinning. Inch by inch, he nuzzles closer to you, licking and kissing all over your thin skin. You can feel your face flushing, heart racing, fingers twitching. And, oh, hello, there’s your cock, poking up in front of his beautiful brown face like some weird incongruous white… thing. You giggle.

“What?” he murmurs.

“Nothing,” you gasp, as he nips at the crease of your thigh. “You’re great, that’s all.”

He pauses for a moment, ducking his head.

“Dionysus?”

His head swings back up to meet yours, eyes burning. “I’m going to fucking ruin you,” he promises, and dives down to mouth at your sack.

You squawk. His mouth is so _hot_ , and his tongue so soft. Your brain is melting into sparkling honey. You’re so _sensitive_. Every brush of his lips jolts up your spine, pulling little _ahs_ and _ohs_ right out of your throat. Your guts curl hot and tight with pleasure.

“Di,” you plead, “Di, fuck.”

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes half-lidded and dark, and slips one hand from your knee to trail over your dick. “How’sat feel, babe? You like it?”

“Uh huh,” you say, and flail one hand out to… do something. You pat his head. “Good job.”

He actually snorts with laughter, a full-throated goatish sound, and, grinning, says, “I can do better than good. Here, let me,” and snatches your forgotten ever-filling goblet from the grass beside you.

And pours it all over your groin.

“What the fuck,” you say, “I’m gonna have purple pubes.”

He’s snickering, now. “Just wait a, a second, it feels amazing, promise.”

“You try to fuck your drinks a lot?” you snipe over his giggles. It’s warm, which is weird; it’s that same thick unwatered Olympian wine he gave you before, and it smells like sweet spices. You’re not exactly tan, and the thick, dark pour of it makes your skin look practically white.

And – oh. It tingles. That’s very weird.

“That can’t be hygenic,” you inform him, voice high and breathy.

“S’magic, doesn’t have to be,” he rumbles, and sucks your prick into his mouth.

_Fuck_.

Electric pleasure shoots up your spine and down your legs, all the way to your curling toes. His mouth is hot, wet, tight – sparks shoot off under your eyelids and you groan like you’re dying. Nothing has ever felt this good, probably, not birth or death or the best nap you ever had. 

He bobs his head, and sucks in his cheeks with a gross-sounding slurp, and you whine. With a breath, he pulls off you (another weird sound) and says, “Talk to me, babe, tell me what you like.” Then, he dives back in.

“Oh, fuck,” you try, voice cracking. “I, uh, _darkness_ you feel so good, I don’t know what to, _ah_ , say? Fuck.”

He licks a stripe up the side of your shaft, tongue wet and wine-dark. “This?”

“Yeahthat’sgood,” you squeak. You’re going to file that image away for the rest of your life – Dionysus, powerful and godly, sleek hair mussed, tucked between your pale, thin thighs and mouthing at your dick like it’s candy.

He grins, and takes you back into his mouth, pressing your hips down with his hands. You twitch, held immobile, and let out a hopeless moan.

He slides his head down.

You can feel the soft back of his throat on your cock, past the hard palate and into the clutching muscles of him, and he swallows around you like a fucking monster of pleasure. He takes his time, gliding up and down, slipping you in and out of his tight throat, massaging the rest of you with his tongue. You completely lose track of time. Blindly, you reach for his hair, burying your fingers in its sleek thickness and trying as hard as you can not to come.

Dionysus moans, the buzz of sound running straight from your groin to your gut, and you yelp. Your hips jerk and you shudder. You pat him on the head, urgently, and he doesn’t pull away, just shoves his head down further, lips to your hips and stretched around your cock.

You come like a lightning strike.

Your eyes slam shut, white sparks of feeling glittering through you, an explosion of intensity and hot pressure. It ripples over your skin and back through your nerves, muscles clenching, and you’re full of sparkling, golden bubbles of pleasure. The ripples keep going, bouncing and multiplying in your gut, tugging on your sack and behind your eyes, and you completely lose track of where your body begins and ends.

Then, it crests, and your dick cries for mercy.

“Haafuck,” you manage. “Oh, shit, too much, agh – ”

Dionysus slips off you with a wet sound, and coughs a little. You just stare at him. He’s flush and wet with spit, a dribble of your come caught on his lip. He licks it off.

“I died,” you announce, “and this is some sort of fever dream before I get sent to the weird parts of Tartarus.” Your voice is hoarse and cracking.

He grins. “That good, huh?” His voice is rougher than yours, but instead of sounding like he’s been sucking dick, it’s raspy and low and gorgeous, which is just not fair at all. And, you notice, he’s got one huge hand tight around his cock, pulling slowly.

“Your turn.” You slap a little vaguely at his shoulder. “Come on. Show me.”

“Yeah, okay,” he murmurs, and gives you a gentle kiss on the cheek.

Carefully, he leans over you, balanced on one arm with the other hand tugging his dick with a vengeance. His dark skin shines with sweat, luminous with colour as he flushes all over. You can feel the heat rolling off him. He’s struggling to keep his eyes on your face, lips open and panting.

You don’t want to move, so you just tip your head up to kiss him on the nose.

He huffs a little laugh, eyes gleaming. “Fuck, you’re cute,” he says.

“That’s me,” you mutter, feeling cocky. You wiggle your chest a bit, puffing out your ribs to show off your pecs. “You want to come on me? All over my cute tits?”

He stares, poleaxed. Gods, he looks like you just slapped him. You want to crow with laughter, with satisfaction, with smug ownership – look what you can do to a god with just a few words. Go Hypnos. “You can, if you want,” you murmur, and lick your lips. “I want you to.”

He gasps. “Oh, shit, Hyps, let me, please,” he groans, fist flying over his cock, the slapping sound of flesh clear in the night air.

“Then what are you waiting for? Do it.”

Just like that, his hips jerk and he’s coming.

You are _so good_ at this.

This part is a little gross. He’s grunting, with a hilarious scrunched-up o-face, clutching at his dick as it twitches and spits jizz all over your belly. It’s warm, of course, and a little slick, sliding into the little hollow under your sternum; at least it doesn’t really smell like much. You can’t quite stop your nose from wrinkling.

He’s laughing, voice strained and breathy, as he rolls off you, collapsing in a sated heap at your side. Somebody cheers.

Without your big Dionysus-shaped blanket, the chill night wind cools your drying belly and you grimace. You shuffle closer to him, tucking yourself into his side and under his outstretched arm. Like this he doesn’t seem that much taller than you - until you reach out your toes and only tap his calf. Not fair.

He flops his head in your direction, catching your eyes. He’s got a warm, surprised smile on his face. “Hi, Hyps.”

“Hi,” you grin.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just smiles.

The silence between you is gentle and delicate. Wind rustles the trees and the grass, and the bonfire crackles it’s way to the sky. The dancers have quieted their shouts and drums. The stars say nothing. In this tiny bubble of privacy, you can hear his breath slowing, feel his spend cooling, see his dark eyes wide and gleaming. See him smiling. You smile back.

Then, like he remembered a terrible joke, he starts to laugh.

“Can I tell you a – a secret,” he giggles.

You nod.

“It’s really stupid.”

“It better be,” you grin.

“I… fuck,” he whispers. “ _It tastes like candy_.”

You stare. “Your…”

He nods, lips tight to trap his laughter. “Yeah, no joke, I - try it, go – go on.”

He’s… maybe not lying? Why would he lie about that? Uncomprehending, you trail a finger up your belly, catching some of his seed on your fingertip. “If this is some weird pervert way to get me to eat your – ”

“No, I’m not lying, I swear, I’m done with pranks for the night,” he says. “I mean, man, you’re hot as Helios, and I’m going to think about tonight forever, but – just try it.”

Your expression does something weird at the compliment, but you ignore it, and, eyes on his face, slowly slip your finger into your mouth.

…What the fuck.

“What the fuck,” you say. “Is that… honey floss?”

“I _know_ ,” he groans. “It was some, some stupid bet with Aph, I don’t even remember any more!” He presses his hand over his eyes.

“Why would – what would that even do?”

“I don’t know!” he whisper-yells, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I only realised the next morning!”

“How! How do you even find that out!”

“It looked - the texture was different, and I, I couldn’t figure out why?”

You’re getting hysterical, now. “So you _tasted it_?”

He’s curled up, now, clutching his sides, breath wheezing. He nods.

You howl. Your eyes well up, tears streaking your cheeks. “What the fuck?” you gasp. “What the fuck, why would she even be able to _do_ that!”

“I have _no idea_ ,” he says, and it sets you both off again.

“You could sell this,” you choke. “You would make money. Jizz from the god of wine. Better than garum! Put it on your pastries!”

He’s quaking, cheeks burgundy-red. “That’s foul!”

Your belly aching from laughter, you swipe up another mouthful of seed and lick some off your palm. “No, it’s good!”

“Stop,” he yelps, patting weakly at your shoulder. “Oh, hells, stop it, I can’t breathe – ”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you chirp.

He crumples completely into a little ball, chest heaving, tears streaming down his face.

“Here,” you say, “try it!” and you shove your sticky hand at his face. He’s giggling too hard to bat you away, so you sort of smush your hand against his mouth. “It’s been a while, right? Gotta check if the,” you break and laugh a little, then shove at him again, “the _product_ is still as advertised!”

“That’s disgusting,” he cackles, muffled under your fingers, “you’re disgusting.”

“Oh, is the great god of ecstasy afraid of his own come?” you shout, and roll on top of him, wriggling closer to stick your hand in his mouth. He startles, pulling back, and you press your advantage. You may be skinny, but you learned how to wrestle from Achilles himself (via Zagreus kicking your ass over and over until you figured out the techniques he was using). You manage to stuff your fingers in Dionysus’ mouth right before he catches you in his massive arms and rolls you both over into the grass.

He spits out your hand with an exaggerated _blehh_ , still grinning. “You’re a wretched little sneak.”

“I’ve met wretched sneaks. I’m way better than they are.” You rest your head back on the cool ground.

Gods. Having him over you still feels amazing. He’s managed to hold on to his body heat, covering you like a warm blanket. He’s got his hips tucked between your thighs, broad chest pressed to your skinny (sticky) ribcage. The pressure makes you want to purr like a cat. You wiggle a bit, and rub your face on his cheek. He’s got the nicest stubble of anyone you’ve met, all curly and soft.

“Mmm,” he says, “Hyps, baby, you’ve got to give me a couple more minutes to recover. Gonna drive me crazy doing that.”

Oh. You were kind of grinding on his dick. “Oops,” you say, and kiss his cheek.

He drops his head to your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’d encourage it at any other time.”

“Any other time?” You roll your hips up against him, and laugh as he hisses.

“You’re such a _brat_ ,” he says, breathless, “can’t believe I invited you to my party,” and he mouths at the base of your throat, tracing the purplish love bites he left earlier.

You hum. “Woulda been pretty boring without me.”

You can feel him smile into your jaw. “ _Yeah_.”

Then his lips are back on yours. He tastes a little like dick, and his unbelievably weird sweet come, but it’s not a bad thing, just unfamiliar. He’s doing this thing with his tongue you recognise from before when he did it on your junk. It’s kind of charming? You snicker a little into his mouth, and he doubles down, licking into you with fervour; it’s slick-wet and spiced like his Olympian wine. You let him delve into you, relaxing back into the grass. You feel all gooey and smug.

Dang. Kissing is great. You should do it more often. Definitely more often with Dionysus.

Who slowly rolls his hips.

“Seriously?” you murmur against his lips. “Thought you wanted a break.”

He just changes his path and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Don’t blame me, babe, you’re a stone-cold hottie.” You groan, and he snickers.

When he kisses you again, you push up, catching his lip in your teeth and pulling gently. He makes a warm little noise and you dive back in, pressing up to rub your noses together. Ha. He’s definitely hard again, rolling in a smooth rhythm against you. It’s a weird angle, with him being taller, but you wiggle yourself down a few inches and catch his wide waist between your legs.

He gasps, and curses.

You snicker into his neck. “Made you swear.”

“Sure did.” He drags himself all over your crotch. He’s hot as embers on your cold skin, and the feeling of his heavy cock stroking all over you is starting to tip from _weird and a bit much_ to _intriguing_. You pull yourself up with your legs, grinding your (soft) junk on him, and he drops his head onto your shoulder. “Oh, fuck.”

You feel smug, and a little mischievous, so you swivel your hips to get the head of his cock rubbing over your hole. It’s a little uncomfortable, and grinds your back into the grass, but it’s worth it when he sounds like you just _punched_ him.

“Yessss,” you hiss. “I’m the best at this.”

Dionysus grabs your face and kisses all over your cheek and mouth. “Babe, babe, you are, you’re the best, but you gotta stop teasing, you’re gonna kill me with that.”

“With my amazing skills?” you say, and make a little circle with your pelvis that has him grunting into your jaw. “Because I’m so good at sex stuff?”

He shuts you up with a thorough kiss. It’s _nice_.

You make out for a couple of minutes, and the time flows like honey. You can hear moans and cheers and laughter from the humans, and Dionysus’ groaning, his big, warm body all over you, pressing you down like a pressure blanket. Your arms are a little pinned against his chest, but you don’t mind that at all, because you can’t really think with his tongue in your mouth. You suck on his lips, nibble his tongue, swallow his grunts, and fail not to smile too hard. You just want to wriggle all over him. God. You’re starting to feel flush and strange, grinding harder on his dick and making noises of your own -

Oh. You’re hard again! Fun.

Dionysus detaches from your mouth with a heavy gasp. “Hyps,” he pants, “I have to fuck you, Gods, let me fuck you.” He’s staring at you with wild eyes, mouth swollen and face deep burgundy. His body is tense, holding back by a thread, and his cock twitches on yours.

Rolling your hips in a slow circle, you make a considering face. “Mmm, I dunno, I mean – ”

“Gods and hells,” he sputters, “Hypnos, you rude little fuck, you make me lose my _mind_.”

“Well, when you say it like that,” you grin.

He’s still staring, eyes wide and dark. “That a yes?”

“Fuck me, Big D,” you say, and in a moment, he’s pulled off you, rolled you over onto your belly, grabbed you hips, and _buried_ his face in your ass.

“Shit,” you yelp, clawing at the ground. “Give a guy some _warning._ ” Then you can’t really talk anymore.

Moan after embarrassingly squeaky moan is pulled out of your mouth as his tongue swipes over your hole, wide and wet and muscular. All of your senses are electrified to the single point of him, teasing at your rim, laving across you and dipping in with purpose. It’s not like you’re a virgin, but it’s been a couple centuries since anyone went after your ass, and no one’s ever gone at you with this kind of intense focus; he’s licking at you like he’s about to die if he stops, and you can feel your whole face crumpling in pleasure. He’s got his huge, steady hands gripping your hips, tilting you up off the ground at a sharp angle, your back bent, your knees digging into the dirt, and your chest pressed to the grass.

God this is weird. You’re panting, crushed grass getting in your mouth, simultaneously hyperaware and lost in a haze of feeling. Dionysus sucks on your rim and your whole body judders. If this is what Than does with Zag then maybe you can understand with how often they forget Zag’s room doesn’t have a door (understand, not forgive). “Dionysus,” you gasp, “you gotta – shit, you gotta give me a second, blood and _darkness_.”

He pulls back and you can feel him grinning into your butt cheeks. “What’s the problem?” he rasps.

You groan, letting your body flop properly to the ground. “Gonna make me come. Don’t wanna yet.”

Dionysus, paragon of innocence, leans up and whispers in your ear. “You sure?”

You hiss and smack him away. “Fucking – wash out your mouth,” you gripe. “Nasty.” You twist to look back at him.

He’s crouched over you, hands firm on your ass, smug and satisfied as the cat with the canary. After a moment, he lets go of your butt to grope for the discarded wine goblet (it’s pretty close to your head, but you’re not doing anything else tonight but lying back and thinking of Tartarus). With a little grimace, he takes a sip of wine, swishes, and spits.

“Hygiene,” you despair.

“I already told you, it’s – ”

“Magic does not make it less gross,” you point out.

“Do you want me to stop?” he posits.

Ugh. Why is he so pretty.

Sighing, you stick your hips up in the air and wiggle them like a lure. “Get moving, we don’t have all night.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” he notes. “Really makes me eager to please.”

“Damn right,” you say, because his voice is starting to crack at the edges and he’s both a lying liar who lies and obviously dying to get inside you. To make your point clearer, you reach back (ignoring your shaky arms) and grab your butt, spreading it a little, just so he can see. You don’t have a ton of butt to spread, but by the gods you will look scrumptious doing it, so as a bonus you sort of rub your hole a little with one finger. “Come on, godling,” you gloat. “You promised you’d ruin me.”

He groans, and with a smooth movement, he shoves you down and pushes you back into the grass. In a bare moment, he’s crawled his way on top of you, pressed down all over, crushing you under his huge body. He nips at the back of your neck, and ignores your yelping curse to grind his hips into yours.

“G’na make you see stars, baby,” he grunts. “Never gonna wanna fuck anyone else.”

You want to ask what that means – is he talking about you, or himself, both of which have some real implications you might want to talk over? – when he growls and swipes his cock over your cleft. The thick head catches on your rim, and you let out a wheezy moan.

He kisses the back of your neck. “Bear down, gorgeous.”

You are pretty sure you remember how this part works, so as he presses in, you try to relax and push back to meet him.

Oh.

Oooh boy.

He’s a big guy. Obviously. But, like. He’s _big_. Maybe it’s just been too long? The head of him feels blunt and huge, pushing inexorably inward, stretching your oversensitive hole and not stopping, like he’s just going to keep pushing forever, stretching you open and open and open until you split apart. Thank the stars he indulged his oral fixation first; you’re still a bit slick, and his foreskin is really picking up the slack. If he had tried to pour his magic wine on your ass you’d probably kick his thyrsus into the fire.

“Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so good on me, so tight,” he murmurs in your ear. “That’s it, let me in.”

“Nnngahh,” you add.

It takes a minute, but with careful attention, he’s seated in you fully, hips pressed to yours and sack sort of gently knocking on your junk. He’s holding perfectly still as you adjust, like a gentleman, and you can feel sweat dripping off him and onto your back. You are really going to stink in the morning.

Fuck, but he’s damned large. In front of the fire, you feel a bit like you’re being spitted for a roast. You can feel every inch of him in your guts, rubbing over your sweet spot and pushing out your belly.

“I’m, _ah_ , I’m good,” you gasp. “Go for it.”

With that, Dionysus moves.

He rolls his hips slowly, but with utter purpose, the back-and-forth press just on the right side of too much, dragging over your sweet spot and making you shudder. You find yourself clutching at the wrecked grass with both hands, a constant low moan spooling out of you. It feels so good, like the ache of a strong massage that hurts enough to know it’s working. You don’t even really know if you want to come again, but it doesn’t matter. His rhythm matches the drums, a steady ebb and flow, and you find yourself going along with it, breath rolling with the timing of his thrusts. Your heart pounds in your ears. You’re warm all over, feeling like the spitting, sparking bonfire as a gentle tightness ratchets up in your guts. His hips slap against yours like the clapping of the dancers. For a moment, all you can think about is how you must look: a thin, pale creature writhing under this rich, dark mountain of a man, his huge hands pinning you down, his thick thighs hiding you almost totally from the worshipers surrounding you. Darkness, even your curly hair must barely poke out from under his broad shoulders.

His fists his hand in your hair, pulling tight, and your eyes roll back. A wash of warm tingles races down your spine. He’s murmuring nonsense in your ear, and you can’t really pay any attention as he systematically unravels you.

Then: “Hyps – darling – shall I touch you?”

Barely clinging to coherence, you shake your head.

“Fuck, right, okay,” he says, and speeds up.

If you thought he was big before, you were definitely right, but now it feels like you’re being fucked by a _log_ or something. He’s not pounding at you like a beast, but he’s definitely not trying to draw it out; he’s chasing his own pleasure, now, and it sends a new shiver down your back and all the way to your toes. With every thrust, you let yourself keen, building up louder and louder as the tension inside you starts to sparkle and gleam.

You want to kiss him, claw at his shoulders, ask him his mother’s name, flip him over and ride him while you watch him fall apart. You wriggle under his weight, pressing back to meet his thrusts as best you can. The smacking of his sack to yours is a little burst of lightning every time, punctuating the steady roar of climax nipping at your heels.

“Fuck,” you babble, “you better come soon, I’m gonna lose it – ”

Dionysus growls, and fucks himself into you, thrusts losing coordination and turning jerky and hurried. He’s not even talking, just making animal grunts into your shoulder, pulling at your hair and panting.

Fuck.

You come again.

This time it’s less like you’re dying, and more like you’re squeezing every remaining bit of pleasure out of your body like a wet rag. Your limbs shake and judder, and you’re keening, hands grasping at nothing and eyelids fluttering. He’s still fucking you, every movement a new wave of sensation, rubbing and pressing and pushing at every nerve at once.

It doesn’t take long for him to meet you. His hips stutter, and he buries himself in you as deep as he can go, grunting and groaning. It sounds just as silly as it did before, so you let yourself laugh, head spinning with ecstatic relief.

“You’re squishing me,” you giggle, as he lets his head flop down to rest on your back.

“Oh,” he pants. “Weird how that happened.”

You snicker.

With a great sigh, he slides his cock out of you (a truly nasty wet feeling that you don’t want to linger on) and slips off your back to curl up at your side. “Fuck,” he says, finally.

“Yep,” you say.

The dancers have slowed, as the moon drifts overhead and crickets chirp to the sweet melody of the flutes. A few humans have gathered near the fire to make love; some more are swaying in each other’s arms, basking in the warm glow.

“Does the bonfire just… burn itself out?” you murmur.

“Nah,” he says. “Disappears with the sunrise. That’s why there’s no smoke.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t even noticed. Not a lot of time spent around fires, in the vaunted House of Hades. “Guess I gotta stay and watch then.”

He lets one hand drift over your back, trailing a nonsense pattern that makes you shiver. “Guess you do.”

You heave yourself over, squirming back into his chest so you’re spooning. (So what. He’s warm and toasty and you have no circulation.) You fit right in the dip of his hips, even if his legs are a little too long to match yours. Chuckling, he wraps his arm around your waist, and you preen a bit. Hypnos: best at sex, even better at snuggling.

After a while idly watching sparks float away into the sky, Dionysus says, “How was that for you?”

You think for a minute. “Great,” you say, honestly. “A plus, would party again.”

You feel him grin into your hair. “Good.”

“For you?” you prod.

“Yeah. Same.”

You grin right back. “Wasn’t sure if I could come a second time. That was wild.”

“Oh, why not,” he pouts. “You deserve it.”

“Aw. No, it’s just been… a while.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” he gloats, and you elbow him.

“No, really.”

The flames spiral and flare, popping and crackling quietly. His arm pulls a little tighter around your waist. “How long?” he asks, carefully neutral.

“A while,” you say, pressing back into his chest.

“You’re saying I’m the only person you’ve fucked… this year?”

“Last couple centuries, actually,” you murmur.

His heart rate kicks up. Hm. Bad, you decide. It’s time to nap, not get weird about feelings and stuff.

“Really? No one else?”

You nod. “It’s no big deal. Just… go to sleep.”

“But – but, Hypnos, we – ”

You flap one hand vaguely at his head. “Shh,” you insist. “No more talking.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can hear the gears turning in his head.

“Fuck,” you pout. “Okay, fine, one question, then we go to _sleep_ before I _die._ ”

There’s a long moment of silence. Then, quietly, “Why did you say yes? To me?”

Ohhh boy.

“I like you,” you sigh. “You’re funny and overwhelming and I like your company and you’re good at sex and you’re kind of annoying, but in a good way. Alright. We good?”

He doesn’t say a word, but his hand tightens on your waist. After a moment, he presses his lips to your shoulder – a soft, chaste kiss.

“Okaaay,” you murmur, “cool, cool, great. Sleep time now.”

He huffs a tiny laugh.

As you drift into your favourite soft dreamspace, your last curious thought notes: _his heartbeat never slowed down._

-

You wake to a bright light and a throbbing headache.

“Aaaggh,” you say, and fling your arm over your face.

_Aaaggh_ , your brain agrees.

“Good morning,” Thanatos says, dry as dust.

Well, fuck. You pull back into the mattress with a raspy groan. You can wiggle your fingers, and your toes, so you’re not dead, even if you want to curl up and die right now. Some tiny demon is trying to drill into your skull with a spoon, and all the muscles in your legs, your back, and your hips are lecturing you loudly. Ultimately: _ow._

“Your shift is in an hour, brother.”

“Fuggoff,” you slur, the words crawling out of your mouth like angry slugs. “G’sleep.”

“Hypnos,” Than says sharply, “you were doing so well. Don’t break your streak. It’s all about – ”

“Oh it’s _all about consistency blah blah I have no life outside of work_ ,” you say in your worst Than impression, hiding deeper under the covers. Then the covers fly off, and you shriek.

“I did not pick you up from the mortal realm drunk and drooling to have you embarrass our family like this,” Thanatos says over your screeching. “Now get up and wash yourself. You stink.”

“I’m going to murder you,” you wheeze. “No one’ll find the body cuz you’re in charge of body finding. Mom will be sad for a week and Zag will cry in Meg’s arms and no one will ever catch me.”

“You’re very lucky I was the one who picked you up and not Charon,” calls Thanatos as he sweeps out of the room. “He wouldn’t have dressed you before bringing you back into the palace.”

“Get _out_ of my _room_ ,” you rasp.

Thanatos, hand on the door, turns back to you. “There’s a note for you on your bedside table. It was requested that I ask you to read it as soon as possible.” Then he neatly saunters out, not even slamming the door because he’s too cool for that kind of petty satisfaction. What a _prick_.

You’re in your nice pyjamas, though. The ones with the fuzzy lining. And you definitely didn’t dress yourself after last night.

…Last night.

Oh. Oh no.

You scramble out of bed and almost fall to the floor with a yelp of pain as your whole body tells you to fuck off. Carefully, you manoeuvre until you can see your reflection in the wall mirror.

Oh, _no_.

A patch of your hair is pale purple from a wine stain, and your neck and jaw are covered in hickeys (fading, yes, but obvious). Your eyes are red and dry-looking, your dark circles even deeper than usual, and most tellingly, you’re standing like your ass hurts. You don’t even want to think about what you look like under your clothes. And, gods, your breath is _rank_. You kind of want to belch, but it feels like it might actually be not a belch, so you just swallow grimly and reach for your usual water glass.

Aw. Than remembered to refill it for you. What a sweetie.

Aaand next to it is that note he mentioned. Okay. Might as well get that out of the way before tackling your morning to-do list.

It’s a little square bit of parchment, with some text in an untidy, violet script. You have to lean close to read it.

_Hyps -_

_That hangover’s for wrecking my nice chiton. No hard feelings._

_I had a great time. Let’s party again soon? Big D_

At the very bottom is a little mark, like a wine stain, but it’s in the shape of a tiny heart.

You place the note carefully on your bedside table, lay down, roll over, and scream into your pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the longest prose thing I've ever written. Love that it's pure rarepair porn. Did I write this as a joke? Yes. Did I get too invested and lose control? Yes. Did the characters refuse _not_ to fuck a second time, increasing this word count by like 50%? God dammit yes.   
> Hope you had fun! Please let me know what you liked - comments fuel the writing beast.
> 
> Working title:  
> hypnos (adhd icon) meets dioniceass
> 
> Suggested listening:   
> Make Out by Julia Nunes  
> [This ambient mix](https://crowds.ambient-mixer.com/midsummer-bonfire) but with the "Irish Pub Singing" track muted


End file.
